


The Draw

by izzbelle



Category: Supernatural, The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Both Underage, Destiel - Freeform, Horse Racing, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Ocean, On Hiatus, Riding, Slow Burn, Top!Castiel, Violence, bottom!Dean, castiel!rider, dean!rider, dean/cas - Freeform, november - Freeform, parents are eaten lol, scorpio races - Freeform, slowest of burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10683963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzbelle/pseuds/izzbelle
Summary: Scorpio Races based destiel AU.All ideas/plots belong to the outstanding author Maggie Stiefvater.Dean Winchester has a lot of issues. An absent father, more unpaid bills then he can count on his fingers, and a grumpy horse for a friend. He also lives on an island where people race flesh eating sea horses every November. Fun times.Castiel Novak has a few less issues. The big one is that he knows he will die on the sand like his father as the statistics go. He needs out before he looses himself to the November sea.This is a story in which Cas trains Dean to win his life back (totally not because his face is really nice).ON HIATUS UNTIL DEMAND





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will post individual chapter notes at the end so check those out for any serious warnings

The small wooden boat capsized and the two other people alongside Dean plunged into the cold November water, their heads bobbing below the black frothy waves. Thunder crashed so loudly above, he felt the ocean shake and sheets of rain assaulted the currents. The water violently tugged at his clothes, all warmth being torn from his body within seconds. What heat remained was frozen by the pit of fear in his stomach. In the distance he could see dark equine shapes moving just beneath the surface, cutting towards the group of people. His sight was taken from him as a sharp pain seized his foot, pulling his head into the brine. Muffled by the liquid, Dean was surrounded by screams, which only seemed to grow in pitch until he felt warmth seeping from his ears. The water around him slowly bled into the colour red, the dark figures in front of him now being dismembered. Fighting the pressure on his leg, a shout erupted from the boy now struggling to reach the other people, though the thick wine coloured fluid swallowed his words and ran down his throat, suffocating him. Thrashing, Dean felt his muscles begin to weaken as he sunk farther from the steely light above him.

Dean woke, his threadbare sheets soaked with sweat and knotted by his feet, his thin pillow lying lamely in a pile against his chipped door. The morning island sun filtered in through his window, casting a fragile light over his room, raindrops still fixed to the glass from last night's storm. The unfilled dresser in the corner cast a much too large shadow over the small space, dwarfing his bedframe. The stale air was still with silence, only broken by the occasional rustle of grass. Chilled morning air from the seeped into his space from cracks in the glass, urging him to wake.

Dean took deep breaths. Placing his feet on the uneven floorboards, he stood up only once certain his legs would take his weight and waddled, careful not to stab himself with a splinter, to throw on a paint splattered t-shirt and a torn up pair of jeans. Not wanting to wake the other occupant of the house at the asscrack of dawn on a Saturday, he forced his shaky hands to steady when pushing into the kitchen.

Dean glanced at the empty cabinets save a handful of apples from the tree outside and sighed. Dad hadn't been home for days again, and that meant that there would be no substantial money on the counter for at least another few weeks. The odd jobs Dean picked up covered the meagre amounts of food they had for them and the animals, but the power bill had been left for a month now and threats of it being shut off hung over their heads. John managed to keep up with the payments when he wasn't drinking, as the nearby hotel paid pity to the local drunk with one leg and a dead wife, but there was rarely a time when the man didn't come home with a bad hangover.

Dean didn't start his unofficial job until midday and the crooked clock in the hall told him it was seventy thirty. Another shuffling sound came from the other side of a thin entrance. This noise came from the lot outside which was more of a sand pit surrounded by a broken picket fence, scattered machinery peppering the hard packed ground. A rusted dirt bike stood propped up against a weak looking shed, hay strewn around which a handful of chickens picked at.

Pushing out of the meagre house, Dean whistled softly into the damp October air. With a low rumbling nicker, a black head poked out from the shed and looked unimpressed at the boys call. Dean popped his hip out and murmered disapprovingly to the horse, "So that's all the thanks I get for paying your rent, eh? I see how it is," Turning his back to the creature he stood huffing dramatically in anger. Slowly, the large spindly horse grumpily padded out to its owner, this act noticeably practiced by the pair, only given away by a slight amusement that sparkled in her amber ringed eyes. Shuffling her mouth along his shirt's collar and soon nibbling on Dean's short sandy hair, the boy finally let out a breathy snort of forgiveness and turned to the nearly black mare, threading his hands into her mane and scratching hard, earning him shove as the large animal leaned into his touch.

Grabbing a heavily used halter, he tied her to a hook on the side of the shed and started brushing shavings and sand out of her dappled side. Mumbling to the horse without pause, his ritualistic one-sided conversation coaxed the tension out of both of their shoulders. Not bothering to grab the worn saddle in the corner, Dean bridled the Thoroughbred mix, who took a few tries to open her mouth. "Gotta go Baby, Sammy's almost up." The grumpy mare only replied with a swish of her thick tail, but the twitching of her muscles gave away her readiness.

Lifting himself up onto the tall animal, Dean scrambled for a second for a hold on her slick hair before he found balance and swung a leg over her back, holding the reins taught. His weight now pressing into hers, Dean could feel the mare's body tense in eagerness. No need to tap his boots to her sides, as the mare's reedy legs were already dancing on spot, Dean's eyes landed on the fence at the end of their street and he set his jaw in focus.

Baby abruptly threw her head up tearing a few inches of rein from Dean's hands and with this new freedom she shot off, slick black body sliding into lengthy stride. Dean slipped farther away from withers with a short laugh at her impatience. The older boy softened his body, and fell into a natural position on her back, crouched over slightly, eyes trained on the fence coming into focus, a soft smile playing over his lips.

Tightening the reins an inch and sitting back more tersely, Dean collected the horse into a shorter stride to clear the lofty fence. With ease, the mare pushed off, flicking her back legs up in joy, leaving feet between her and the picket. Landing, she sprayed gravel and sand everywhere, scrabbling for hold as Dean sharply turned her to the right, into a field that ran alongside the dirt road. Haphazardly bolting in the direction he pointed her in with shake of her head, Dean whooped loudly and let his reins now swing loose at her slim neck his smile splitting into a grin. As the pair hit the grass and Dean loosened his grip, he noticed the steadiness in his grasp he hadn't had since he woke up.

A loud grumble sounded from the road to their left as a gangly boy atop a dirt bike rode beside them. "It's cheating to leave the person your racing with asleep, you know, is it because you know the only time you'll beat me to town is in your dreams?"

"Don't be a bitch, Sam, we're leaving you and your rusted tricycle in the dust,"

"Okay Jerk, just close your mouth or you might get a mouthful of my ass kicking," With Dean's shouts of protests of respect to older brothers, the younger of the two pulled into a lead as the road veered in a different direction. Cursing, Dean gently pressed Baby's sides with his boots and urged her into a sprint as he folded further on her back, winding his hands to knot in her mane. "Today is the not the day I loose to my kid brother," He spoke quietly into her flattened ears. The mare only flicked her ears in response though Dean felt pride pulse through him as Baby's breath laboured and the hollow thump of her hooves on the ground became a rapid beat as they cut through the coarse island meadow.

Dodging sheep and rushing through water-laden hedges, both could see Laurence, the only town on the small island, in the short distance and Dean could almost taste the small (and first) victory against his twerp of a brother. Eyes trained on the oncoming brick buildings, just coming into full view, Dean's brain didn't register that he was off of Baby's back and crashing towards the ground until he landed on his back in the soggy grass.

All air pushed out of him, he gasped trying to fill his lungs, but only smell of rotting decay entered his mouth and nose, causing him to involuntarily retch. Looking around, shaking the black circles from the side of his vision, Dean saw the source of the smell. Heaving his empty stomach again, the teenager scrambled to his feet and held his t-shirt over half his face. Baby was only a few feet away huffing fearfully with wide eyes at the bloodied mass of flesh, which had caused her to spook. Dean could only assume that the animal was once one of the countless sheep or cows that lived in the pastures and it had wandered too close to the fence. It looked like it had been skinned and chunks ripped out of its meatiest parts.

The mangled body at his feat was a reminder to Dean that November was almost upon Laurence, and with it brought more death then at any time of the year. Although the unusually large storm must have drawn one out, it was only time before more of the sea horses emerged from the island's waters, hungry for flesh and just as untameable as they were last year. This of course, did not stop the idiotic people of Laurence from capturing the beasts, and each year for as long as the island existed, racing along the beach. Dean tried to hold his anger back and understand the age-old ritual, but it did not stop the resentment that boiled in him every time he was reminded of why he was left without a mother, an incapacitated father and countless nights without sleep.

Whistling for Baby to come over, Dean swung himself onto her back once again and set towards the near town at a steady trot, though his mind was no longer on him and Sammy's competition, but the fight for survival that would take place in the next months.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel.

Chapter 2

Castiel was flying. Cold ocean water sprayed his face in a fine mist and the ragged cliffs of Laurence to his left began to blur together. Thighs and arms burning from holding the animal beneath him in a straight line along the surf, he was grateful for the late October air. He risked a glance down to the bare muscular form he pressed between his legs. An expanse of gold slicked with sweat and salt water stretched out far below him, muscles rippling under thin skin as the huge animal engulfed the beach with its hungry strides. Angry waves crashed into boulders embedded in the soft earth with bone crunching force, roaring fearsomely at the pair.

The creature's slim legs extended and contracted, stretching out for what seemed like miles from Castiel's vantage, perched just behind its serpent like neck, currently rounded into a rigid arc. The boy's thin fingers adeptly ran through the animal's milky mane, and without stop knotted and unknotted the hair into three pieces, tugging slightly with every tie completed. With every pull at the hair, the creature seemed to be dragged back.

He remembered when his father had dragged the beast out of the water. How it had taken ten people six hours just to tear the creature from the surf, four more to drape it in pounds of iron and crosses to silence its eardrum bursting screams. That the group, short of three people who lay broken to the side, has just managed to keep him from thrashing, standing like a gilded king, golden coat blazing in the early morning sun and murder in his black eyes. He remembered it took exactly 3 gallons of holy water pumped into the water horse's veins and stomach, until the steaming liquid had poured through its nose and mouth just for the beast to lower his head, hate still burning darkly in his eyes, lips pulled back to reveal sharp canines.

The animal did not sound for the rest of the journey. The stable had special prisons for the monsters, iron barred stalls with crosses and sigils etched into every inch of the thick oak that boarded the metal. Castiel's father has taken him aside immediately, telling him to never go near the locked cell if he wanted to come out again. Mr Novak prided himself in a fearless tact with the water horses that only lead to success, but something apprehensive glinted dangerously in his aged blue eyes. "We didn't catch a capaill uisce Castiel, we caught the devil," He said softly as the pair climbed to their house a short walk away from the racing barn. "And he will tempt you."

From his house every night, Castiel could hear the stallion's cries for the ocean. They were not the furious shrieks of him being torn from his home that he sounded day after day of training, but lonely keens. The skinny raven-haired boy could not stop his heart from twisting painfully with every call the horse made for its home. The sounds only increased with every day closer to November as the ocean's magic grew stronger.

Not being able to help himself anymore, Castiel pulled on his boots and crept past his father's room. Slipping out of his house, he paused and grabbed a small lantern hanging from their porch. Soon he was padding down the entrance to the barn turning towards the section which kept a handful of water horses, his pulse quickening. The stallion's soft rumbles still held a deep ferocity from a short distance. Sliding the wooden door open, wincing at the creaking noise. He was not the only one who heard the noise, and as soon as he stepped into the shadows, his lamp giving him a small sphere of dim light, there was only silence.

Freezing for a second, Castiel could only stare dumbly ahead, just making out the glint of the iron bars in front of him. Stepping one more pace forward, the boy hesitantly held the lantern out ahead of him and squinted. The light had found the stallion's murky eyes, glittering wetly in the small flame, void of any emotion save cautious intrigue at the feeble human. If he strained his ears, he heard a faint tinkling noise the iron chain blanket made as the horse quivered slightly in discomfort. Silence was for the first time in Castiel's life, uncomfortable and so slowly lowering himself onto the cool stone, he began to whisper across the small void to the creature. The shivering stopped.

Every night for months he crept down from his house to ask it questions about the sky and the sand and the sea. He told the stallion about his mother's absence, how the only place he felt he fit was atop monsters, asked it to take care of his father, pleaded with it not to eat his only family. Content with the silence he got in return, Castiel felt a pull to the caged horse with a slender gold head that greeted him every night with pricked hears, listening with interest.

He burst into the stable in the early hours of the morning on a chilled April, the sun still hours away from rising, lamp swinging forcefully from his pace. He dropped the light on a nearby feed box and jogged up to the confinement, pressing his hands to the bars. The usual chiming of iron chain-link was amplified to a sharp clanging, the golden horse in front of him shaking violently from the overzealous assortment of religious emblems draped across his back.

Muttering angrily about the cruel reprimand the water horse had gotten for attacking a young trainer today, Castiel apologized profusely to the stallion, murmuring excuses for his father's harshness and explaining why his father wouldn't let him help train the creature. Pausing, he reached into his pocket and stood staring at the key he snatched from his father's coat. Taking the heavy padlock in his hand, the boy fit the key into the hole, and glanced up at the giant, taking in his loftiness fully. As always, he was unable to read any emotion except vague curiosity. Taking a shallow breath, he turned the key, hearing the pop of the mechanisms inside. Determined to continue what he came to do, Castiel caught the reflection of his father's deep blue eyes in the dented metal and setting his jaw, he pushed the cage door open.

Like he did with the other, older water horses he worked with that the racing stable held captive, Castiel breathed deeply, calming himself and pressed his iron ring into the stallion, pushing slightly, willing the horse back. Leashing it with a frayed rope, he tied the still shuddering creature to one of the bars. Ring still pushed into its shoulder, he gingerly he began stripping the layers of iron off of its back. Castiel untangled every rosary from its mane and tale, and lifted the weights from the creature's slender ankles. Taking a rag from his pocket in the weak firelight, the boy gently rubbed into the stallions sweat crusted hair, brushing the golden hide into a silky texture. Working into his neck, Castiel felt a sharp pressure on his shoulder and his heart jumped into his throat, entire body stiffening minutely. Feeling his heart beat jump into an impossibly fast pace, he shifted his eyes, not daring to turn his head. When he found the monster's snakelike neck craned, mouth resting heavily in the crook between his neck and back, rubbing back and forth and grooming, his body sagged in relief. And, for the first time in years, Castiel found a smile softening his stony expression.

Castiel, as expected, grew into one of the most talented riders in Laurence in the next years, and yet his father still kept him away from the metallic capaill uisce, night visits were only time with the horse. This only changed four years ago during the Scorpio Races when a grey mare ripped his only relative from his high perch on the stallion, tearing into his neck. Castiel lost his father that day, but gained his best friend.

His partner let out a dramatic war cry, picking up his already thunderous pace and the lean teenager was brought out of his thoughts. A burst of sharp laughter ripped its way out of Castiel's mouth at the ridiculousness of his horse and the monster beneath him, sensing the good mood, asked for more rein. Feeling more than slightly high on the adrenalin of the first run of the racing season, the boy threw the reins out in front of him and let the horse beneath him devour what was left of the stretch of sand.

The animal came to a sudden stop in front of a cliff, bouncing in place. Castiel slipped off him, used to the large fall. Playfully nudging his owner, the blue eyed boy was not responsive, his eyes on the ocean. He was distracted by the crest of a wave, which was rapidly changing into what looked more like a top line of an equine. The gold stallion now turned his thinly boned face to the roar of the waves to match his rider. The draw of the sea was not strong enough in October to be any interest to him. He had not swam freely in the November waters of Laurence for five years, though the young man by his side was more than a reason to stay. Their bond had become something legendary after an undefeated four-year title.

Turning towards his partner, the animal allowed Castiel to lower his head, cradled in his hands. Foreheads pressed together, the boy whispered to the animal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean.

Chapter 3

He had just walked home, giving Baby a rest from pulling around various pottery pieces for the local house goods shop. Letting her loose in the yard, Dean felt around in his jacket pocket for the bills he had brought home, grabbing the worn pieces of paper, a pleased light trickling into his gaze. Pushing into the house, which was permanently unlocked, he froze as he spotted a dark haired man hunched over the kitchen table. Brows furrowing in confusion at the sight of the man, Dean started towards the barren table slowly, as if approaching an injured animal. “Dad?” He said softly, voice tightly guarded. John Winchester lifted his face to reveal a greying head, face etched with age and eyes darkly bloodshot. The corners of the man’s lips slipped down slightly and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. 

“Dean. You’re supposed to be at work.” The words were no question and the words were devoid of many emotion. The boy across from him straightened his back and threw his shoulders back, as if preparing for a battle. 

“I always come home now, you haven’t been home in weeks. The bills,” Dean teetered off, uncertain if his next words would provoke something more violent. John sagged suddenly. This was far off the man Dean had come to fear most of his life. The gruff man looked broken. 

“Sit down. We need to talk.” 

 

Dean slammed through the door to his shed, fist clenched in anger and his jaw set tightly. Baby who was in the corner, attempting to chew down the low quality hay, startled, the whites of her eyes flashing before recognizing her rider. The sandy haired teenager made a beeline to the wall and grabbed her bridle. 

“The fucking coward, the fucking piece of crap, what? Blows our lives to shit and abandons ship? No, fuck that fuck him.” He faced the horse, his eyes shimmering with angry tears. His shouts turned into a hoarse whisper. “He’s leaving Baby. The house, Sammy’s school, you, everything is gone.” His hands fell limp to his sides. Dean’s family had moved endlessly before water horses had murdered his mother. The house that they owned in was the last place her two sons had seen her alive in. It was all they had and all they wanted. “He says he sees her everywhere. Even in me and Sam.” The more Dean thought about it, the more it made him want to punch the old man’s face in. The brothers would have to live in an orphanage for the next year until Dean turned 18 and Sam would end up in the system for the rest of his under aged life. They would loose everything, including each other. “Let’s get out of here.” He never pushed Baby so fast out the gate. 

Dean shot down the main road, dodging the few trucks that came their way with a little less room than what was considered dangerous. The black mare hardly flinched as the last vehicle’s horn blasted loudly to their right. It was not rare for her owner to push both their limits after an interaction with his father. Plunging beneath the tree level, the setting sun was being smothered by storm clouds as the green billows thickened above their heads. Dean flattened his body to the thoroughbred’s slim figure and ignored the slight spritzing of rain that had surrounded the pair.  
The light around them was slowly suffocating and Dean hadn’t realized the impending storm until it was practically upon the horse and rider. The trees to their left were barely visible in the inky black shadows of the forest and the fields overlooking cliffs on the right were blending into one dismal grey horizon. 

A deep rumble sounded in the distance as the dirt road in front of them exploded with large pellets of water driving hard into the gravel. The drops thundered on the pair, who were soaked immediately and encased in a curtain of falling liquid. Dean pitched forward on her back as the mare’s foot slipped out from under her and the two stumbled in the dirt quickly turning mud. Dean sat back and tugged lightly on the reins, letting the mare choose a slow trot to continue at. Beyond the white sheets Dean could see nothing but blurry grey forms of trees. A loud curse slipped out of his mouth as he yelled into the abandoned looking surroundings. Stopping Baby, the teenager looked around him for anything that looked vaguely familiar, but still the rain pounded on. Urging the horse into a tentative walk, careful she didn’t slip or go off road, he decided to follow the soft ground until they reached the main road, which led into the town centre. Nothing but the drum of the weather and faint rumbling of thunder in the distance accompanied them for what seemed like hours of walking, the usually mild journey dragging on.

Out of the bland distance came a loud snort. Dean nudged Baby’s sides with his boots but the mare was stuck in place, suddenly haunches tensing and moving backwards swiftly. Whispering empty words of comfort to the horse, Dean’s heart flat lined when a second noise broke through the heavy throb of the storm. The hungry screech that sounded in front of them belonged to a large black shape approaching the pair at a fast pace. Dean swung Baby around, slamming his heels into her sides urging her into a sprint, but again the mare lost footing in the mud and slipped. In the second the two stumbled and regained lost speed, the creature was on them. 

The smell hit Dean first. It was salt and seaweed and decaying flesh and copper and everything he has ever hated about Laurence. It was a capaill uisce. His mind flashed to the day half a month ago when he found the mangled body of an animal on his way to work. Grounded in a storm, confused by the downpour and starving having just emerged onto land, the capaill uisce on his tail found itself dragging its fetid, half water logged body through the streets of Laurence in search of meat. Dean imagined him and Baby’s bodies unrecognizably mauled on the side of a muddy little road. He imagined Sam having no one once John left. He imagined Baby’s screams being cut off as her throat was ripped into, the betrayal of the trust she put in him. Swamped with fear, Dean couldn’t think over the pounding in his chest and the fiery surges of adrenalin to his body. He wracked his brain for solutions for both their lives. The only concept he could hold on to was that they were never both going to outrun the monster. Nearly blinded by the wind and rain whipping his face, Dean couldn’t tell if he was crying or not. He hoped he wasn’t, crying on your deathbed was so not okay. 

Baby sounded a terrified cry as the water horse snapped at her haunches. The water plastered boy’s heart wrenched and he had made his choice. He would have to throw himself off so Baby could run faster. 

Pounding his legs against her side once, the mare gave her everything to him and shot forward using the last of her energy. Dean flung the reins in front of him and his burning legs released their hold on her slick back. Quickly slipping onto her flanks, he hit her once firmly on the back, urging her to keep running. The solid body beneath him was gone and for a split second he was flying. Hitting the ground, Dean spun around and scrambled to the side of the road, fumbling near the tree line for a weapon. He prayed to the gods that look down on Laurence, whoever the sick bastards were, that his brave little mare was still running for her life. Finding a long thick branch, he held it in front of himself just as large jaws lined with sharp canines bit down cracking the thick wood. Squinting up at the monster thrashing its large head trying to remove the branch from between them, Dean gagged at the decaying smell oozing from the gill like slits of nostrils. He blinked rapidly attempting to see more than a looming brown creature but the only thing he could make out was the flash of very white, very sharp, very close incisors. Dean’s arms shook and his breath was coming out in laboured puffs, the monster bit down harder and the branch began to splinter. He was fighting a loosing battle. Dropping his only weapon, Dean backed into the road hoping to find a stone of some sort, a small voice reminding him he was just prolonging the unstoppable. The giant form shook its long neck trying to dislodge the imbedded wood. The desperate boy’s heart sunk as he failed to find another weapon. Setting his jaw, he stood up, not aware the creature had already dislodged the branch. The capaill uisce had slunk over to him, lunged at his face. Throwing his body onto the torn up earth, Dean narrowly missed having his cheek removed. Dean’s breaths were short and shallow now the fear coursing through his veins extinguishing any energy he had , his grit wilted and the was left making a weak attempt to crawl away. The monster reared Dean saw its razor like hooves flash as they came crashing down on top of his ribs. Pain seared through his entire body and gathered in his spine as the hungry animal rose again to finish its prize off. Dean closed his eyes. 

A shrill almost pony like whinny sounded in front of him and Dean’s eyes shot open as he recognized a small black thoroughbred, dwarfed by the size of the brown monstrosity, as she barrelled into the carnivore. The horse had only shifted the animal slightly and it had now turned its attention on the larger meal, clearly aware of the fact it was about to get two dinners. Dean got on shaky legs, clutching at his sides, each rib feeling 100 pounds too heavy and shouted at the black horse now striking from back legs, voice gruff with pain, “Dumbass horse, get the hell out of here!” Dean tried to get close but the shrieks and failing limbs were indistinguishable. He stumbled too close and one small, shoed hoof meant for a capaill uisce’s neck, crashed into his skull. 

Hot waves of black flooded his vision as he drifted out of conciseness. The ground felt hard on his back, the rain felt hot on his cheeks and there was a squealing sound that was too loud in his ears, machine metal grinding and then a load thump. Groaning Dean tried to sit up, the loud noises around him replaced by a gentle ringing coming from his own ears. He lifted his head a few inches to be blinded by a pair of luminescent looking headlights lighting a familiar lifeless form on the ground. Dean screamed loudly, the broken sound raking pain from his damaged chest to blood wet mouth. Nausea gripped him and his dead pitched backwards the small height he had raised it, slamming into the dirt. Grief was his last thought before Dean passed out.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel’s arm was really sore; he couldn’t even lift the damn thing without wincing. 

He had been driving home in his father’s old pickup and literally fender bended a water horse three seconds from snapping a skinny thoroughbred’s neck like a toothpick. The not so much a horse was still fresh out of the water, it’s sodden brown coat shinning in his headlights slicked in a thick layer of sea slime. Castiel hard braked a little too late and jumped out of the car. The capaill uisce lay motionless in the mud, its head turned at an unnatural angle. The black horse stood breathing loud in the skirts of his headlights, cloaked in the heavy patter of rain. Castiel started towards the animal slowly, hand held out murmuring assurances. The animal continued to ignore him, and instead lowered her head to something just out of his sight. He carefully stepped through the mud, not wanting to slip and fall in face first. As he got closer, the boy caught sight of reins hanging loose at the mare’s neck. She was scared and bloody but still made no move, meaning to Castiel’s years of experience, she was either hurt or tied down. The bridle complicated things though, did she escape or was there a rider someone out there in the dark. 

The teenager came close enough to make a grab for the horse’s bridle and started moving his hand slowly towards her face. Within seconds the mare’s eyes flashed white and her ears pinned, with a squeal she snapped her jaws menacingly at his fingers. Retreating quickly, Castiel heard a soft groan from behind the mare and his head snapped towards the sound. Squinting into the dark, he ran, slipping the entire time, back to his car. Grabbing a flashlight and a stick off of the ground, he jogged over the angry horse. Shinning the beam of light back and forth, Castiel finally found the source of the soft noise. A shot of surprise rushed through him and he pushed the unwilling mare to the side with his stick. Crouching down, he grabbed the bloody form’s wrist to check for a pulse. The pulse was strong but the boy beneath him was still very much unconscious. Looking over his body, there were numerous scratches and a sizeable looking blood patch seeping from the torn slit in his shirt. Castiel worriedly lifted the boy’s rain soaked tee, his gaze raking over his freckled dusted stomach and chest for more injuries. A large purple bruise stretched in a small arc over his left ribs, a deeper cut darkening the crest of the shape. The capaill has struck at him. 

Cursing at the injury, Castiel, trying to blot out the stab of worry for the stranger, awkwardly dragged the boy across the mud, his horse following and finally stopping to snort at his out-dated car, clearly insulted by its state. Once he hefted the heavy body into the back seat, he turned to the mare. The rain had cleared almost completely and the night sky was beginning to peak through the mist. Walking over and catching the reins faster to avoid any teeth on hand action, he pulled them over her broad face and paused to run his hands down her marred neck. Bite marks littered her sides and top line but she stood rigid. Both hooves were covered in dark blood. Her brown eyes sparkled, daring him to look at the damage she caused on the broken body of the uisce stallion. Castiel sighed and walked her over to the side of his car, and getting into the driver’s seat he stuck his hand holding the reins outside of the window. 

Castiel had rented his father’s house out to a family a year ago. The empty space was only a reminder of his lonely life and he found his small apartment over the barn he worked at, filled with the soft clamour of daily life, slightly less depressing than sleeping in his dead father’s bed. As he pulled into the yard, going at a much faster pace as he began with, he was tempted to laugh at the small horse’s defiance. Refusing to go less than 15 miles per hour, which was a steady canter, even then she had tried to yank the reins out of Castiel’s practiced hands and proceed on her own at a faster pace, which seemed impossible considering the amount of blood she lost and the slight limp of her front left leg. As soon as he stopped the car, the mare shook her head and finally pried the reins from his now rubbed raw palms. He hissed as the leather burned his sensitive skin. The courtyard was fenced in and so Castiel decided to deal with the unconscious human in his truck first. 

That was six hours ago. He had wrapped the (16 or 17 year old he decided) up and gave him his bed. If questioned it was agreed between him and himself that he would not admit to undressing him. The mule downstairs had proved to be far more difficult as, as soon as her owner disappeared, she refused to even be touched. He instead left out water and a flake of the barn’s high quality hay, hoping before the pair left he would convince the mare to be washed. He would deal with this later though, at least when the sun broke. 

At seven hours he worried his guest wouldn’t wake up. Eight hours later he wondered if kidnapping was an apt description for his kind gesture of picking him off the street. Nine hours of pacing without sleep tempted him to call one of the other barn’s staff to inquire casually about murder charges. Instead Castiel had groomed Grace into a perfect gold sheen, eaten three bowls of cereal and taken one very long shower. He had managed to corner the mare with a bucket full of apples, which were hard to come by on the island even so near to November. Unfortunately for him, before he could snatch the bucket away, she had by a miracle of nature managed to inhale at least 10. He eyed her warily before leading (tugging mercilessly) to the hose. Two hours later, she stood irritatingly happy, at the fence to one of the grass paddocks nearest to Castiel’s section of the stable. She had bitten him three times while he applied poultices to her cuts. His patience wore thin. He crossed the yard and up the stairs to the splintering wood floor of his bedroom. He put a hand on the boys shoulder, shaking it slightly. No response. Turning around, he began to make a move for the door. A loud groan erupted from behind him and as Castiel turned, a large coughing fit wracked the boy’s body. Large green eyes flew open and he could feel the pain radiating from the body on his bed as it drew in a large breath and choked on the air, gasping. Castiel strided over and placed a hand on the boy’s chest lightly, holding him down on the bed. “Don’t move too much and stop taking big breathes, you have cracked ribs from getting stepping on.” He snapped with a little too much force.

The other boy had clearly mentally recovered from his near death experience with his extended nap and his now angry glare reminded him way too much of the black thoroughbred downstairs. “Who the fuck are you and where am I?” He demanded. 

Castiel felt annoyance simmering in his chest and tried to hold the frustration from his words at the nameless, now revealed, rude person. His hand pressed down minutely harder on the boy’s broken chest and he saw the other teenager try to hide a burdened wince. “If I were you I would treat me with a little more respect considering I rescued not only you, but your horse from a capaill uisce.” Not adding the bit where he almost ran all three of them over in the process, he released his hold on the boy. Letting out the breath he has been holding, his hands wandered to run through his hair. “I found you on the street last night in a storm. You were getting your beauty sleep in the mud and black beauty almost ate me. So you’re welcome.” 

Green eyes set his jaw stubbornly, his hands tight in Castiel’s embarrassingly thin sheets. Castiel looked around his little wooden room for a minute, composing himself trying to summon a rare sliver of pity for the other teenager. By the time his eyes settle back on his guest, something seems to unwind itself rapidly in the boy, because in a turn of events, he wears a casual smile, “I guess I should ask who my saviour’s name is then, huh?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in his question but Castiel’s head still hurts and he needs a cup of coffee, so it would have to do as whatever twisted apology it was. 

“Castiel Novak. I assume you will need a car to wherever you are going. Whenever your body allows, your mare is downstairs,” He sees the boy’s face pale, realizing his unattended horse. Moving under cracked ribs is a mistake without care, Castiel knows from countless times Grace in training threw him around like a rag doll. The rider lets out a pained whine, and stops flailing. Shuffling more carefully now, he places his bare feet on the floor, throwing the covers off. He stares down at the loose canvas pants hanging around his hips and bare chest, bandage firmly taped in place. He slowly makes eye contact and shifts his eyes away to the corner of the room, where a clump of bloody clothes are rumpled, then snaps them back. 

He starts slowly, eyebrows furrowed, “These are not my clothes.”   
Castiel tries to keep his face from flushing; there was nothing to be embarrassed about. The freckled boy was damp and bloody. He doesn’t delve deeper into how he knows just how freckled he is. “That would be correct.”  
Castiel apparently also fails in surmising the other rider’s character, because the boy lets out a short laugh, wincing slightly at the movement, and sticks out his hand “I’m Dean, thanks for saving my ass.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean.

Chapter 5 

Cause Dean is basically family with the Roadhouse owner, and has blown raspberries at her daughter since the dawn of time, nobody really bothers him when he sits at the bar, a beer cradled in his hands. Ellen Harvelle owns a meat shop in the back that mom and dad used to use for Christmas dinner and hunting the bigger things that lurked in the forests of Lawrence. Mary and Ellen used to be close. The place always kind of smells like leather and blood and beer to Dean, but he used to do homework in one of the ratty booths at the back, so it’s familiar. Tonight Sam was in bed early so Dean thought it was an okay idea to take a quick trip to scrounge up some cash. Maybe get a little drunk too, but he had a near death experience not 48 hours ago so he figured he deserved it. 

The condensation on his bottle drips onto the dented countertop and said Harvelle daughter, Jo, squeezes his shoulder tight in her strong grip. “Look Dean, you can’t blame yourself for running into a water horse. It’s was just a freak accident. ” He grumbles something about responsibility and Sammy, the usual shit. The fact is, if he weren’t such a lucky idiot Sam would have nobody. Dean, without the sheer godsend of Cas, would be on the side of the road, a half eaten hunk of meat. And Baby would be no better. His Father was not known for his parenting skills, but Dean should have stomached it, shouldn’t have let the hurt dig its grubby claws deeper in him. Jo looks at him with understanding and a little bit more sadness Dean thinks he can handle right now. They grew up with each other and Dean pities her for how many self-deprecation sessions she has sat through. Jo lost her dad before she could remember, but she still gets it to some extent. She removes her hand and clears her expression, “So who picked your sorry ass off the side of the road,”

“This rider from that fancy barn north of here. Weird name too, must be some old Lawrence shit: Castiel.” He rolls the word around in his mouth, trying to place the foreign syllables. “Jo, ain’t that the name of some ocean spir-” His word trails off as he catches Jo’s eyes go wide in his peripheral vision. “What?” Dean demands, putting his beer down quickly and glancing around.   
Jo seems to shake her surprise and looks at him hard from the other stool, her eyebrows knitting themselves to match her hard-set mouth. 

“You sure you’ve never seen him before?” Dean nods firmly, Jo’s tone only adding to his confusion. “Don’t fuck with me, Dean,” She huffs in irritation at him. 

“Oh so now you’re going to tell me you know him too.” Dean shook his head, smiling. Cas seemed like he hadn’t talked to another person in months, let alone got out enough to get to bars on the south side of Lawrence. 

“I see him once a year, every year.” Jo looked pointedly at him. What the hell. Jo shrugs at him, “I don’t know Dean, just thought you’d hear about him around. He’s kind of the shit in the November racing circle, won his first when he was 14. Rides this gold thing the mainlander’s say is worth a big buck.” Dean looked up slowly, fixing the blonde girl in front of him in an incredulous stare, “He’s weird though, you’re right, got this creepy thing with the capaill uisce going on,” She turns her head away and looks at him out of the corner of her eye, a dangerous smile pulling at the corners of her mouth half wrapped around her beer. This late at night the bar was always hazy with the burn of cheap cigarettes, a deep red haze over their heads from the heat lamps. The people around them look like shadows as they lower themselves to the pool table. Dean could just overhear a deal in the back for beef hearts at the butchers door. Jo’s voice lowers to a salacious whisper, a fraction louder than the muffled din that presses in on them, “They say Castiel Novak talks to the capaill.” Dean lets out a breath, his head falling into his hands as Jo starts laughing hard. He runs his hands down his face hard, letting his fingers rub out the invisible dirt. 

“Fuck you. Should I be worried crazy’s contagious?” This earns him a shove but he takes it, slipping off the barstool. “Been fun Jo,” He turns to her a little more seriously, “Take care of yourself,” He knows Jo and her mother like to watch the races, kept tabs on the training. The Roadhouse is where if you sign up if you want to run, it’s where all the betting is held on a giant chalkboard in the back. Mainlanders who came to Lawrence for the November race would come in and order margaritas and other fancy crap. Ash the bartender, would complain and Ellen would laugh when they asked their ignorant questions about the island natives, but money was money. And it was hard to come by on this goddamn island so he didn’t think about it too much. Given the chance, Dean’d milk the race for all it was worth, hell; Dean would milk just about anything. 

With that thought, he staggered over to the pool table to go hustle some old guys with God complexes. The stupid fuckers always fell into the mistake of alcohol and egoism. Dean could usually rake in about a good 250 if the regulars were nice and plastered. Even after a year or so of this, the men didn’t seem to be able to raise their IQs a few levels above his thick bullshit. Gordon Walker was the youngest of the crew, and one of John’s old hunting buddies from when he was sober. He was a game hunter from the mainland who moved over for the wilderness and stayed for the low taxes and races. The guy sometimes saw red, started throwing stuff around and Dean didn’t trust him. Anyone who raced water horses for fun had to be a little off their rocker. But Dean also didn’t think Gordon would knock on a kid half his age in public, so he hustled away.

This thinking is how a tender 30 minutes later Dean ends up with a thick wad of 20s in his back pocket and a very angry Gordon with his hands on his collar, dragging him outside. He would shout at Ash or Jo for some help, but he didn’t need the cops on his ass to add to a list of why his week sucked. Though, when the cool night air hit his face and he feels his still injured torso smack against the damp cobblestone, sparks of heated pain lancing through his body, Dean isn’t so sure anymore. His eyes snap open wide, groaning into the dark air as he tries to get his lungs to function, he can’t see anything, but he also can’t not move so it was possible the jackass was just watching him suffer. His chest won’t stop heaving rapidly, trying to feed him oxygen, but every movement is torture. 

When he feels a boot clad foot connect to his stomach the heel shifting his ribs, knocking the already scare air from his lungs, Dean’s shout is cut off. He screws his eyes up, he feels like his whole upper body is crushed in, like he’s grown spikes on the inside of his stomach. 

John didn’t have A+ parenting skills, but he taught Dean how to take a punch and throw one so this is not his first time at the rodeo. In the time Gordon grabs the rest of the crew, he crawls a few yards away and manages to stand on shaky legs, using the building to help him up, clutching at his bruised insides. His head is beginning to feel light, but that is probably because one lung has decided to quit on him, and he can taste his own blood. He sees Ash out of the corner of his eye trying to get to him, but Gordon’s three friends are holding him up. The cash isn’t in his back pocket anymore. He spits pink liquid onto the ground, “Hey fellas, come for a party?” Dean shifts his concentration. Gordon is big, not stocky but tall, and he suffers from raging arrogance. He’ll throw big punches, coming too far through with his weight, which he isn’t strong enough to hold. So when he teeters forward, fist first, Dean makes a pained step to the right, stumbling towards the road, and hands still at his side. Ash shouts something angry, Dean stumbles some more, and the man comes closer. His head throbs in warning so he tries something stupid, a last stand as such. The man is spewing, and Dean can smell the cheep booze from feet away, “Give me the money Winchester, I swear I’ll go.” 

Dean bristles, his words come out short and hard. He doesn’t have much air or brainpower for anything with a creative flair. “I won it. Fair.” Dean still doesn’t have the stack of bills, but he sure as fuck doesn’t want the man beating on him to go and find it while he’s on the side of the road choking on his own blood, so with a last attempt, he throws himself forward. His punch isn’t good. It’s solid despite his current state but it lands on the corner of Gordon’s face, grazing his jaw. He is dazed when the man shoves him to the floor again, landing a punch. Gordon keeps coming back and shouting about the money and Dean’s mind drifts dangerously after the second punch to the side of his face. Lawrence has always been poor he thinks, someone in the world has to be. Money is to be fought for. Dean’s eyes crack open when he hears shouting. The weight of the angry, drunk man is lifted from his legs and the blows to his face stop. He squints up through his one good eye, the other swollen firmly shut. It’s blurry and he might be hallucinating, but Dean sees Castiel Novak squinting down at him, head tilted, eyes an inky blue in the shadows, “Dean.” Cas’ voice is gruffer than he remembers, but it pours relief through him so he lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. Something in his chest is gurgling. Oops. 

“Howdy there Cas,” The words sound wet. Castiel tells him to stop talking so Dean stops talking. He also lets the other teenager’s surprisingly strong arms drag him to his feet. He feels a thick wad shoved into his coat pocket, a smile stretching over his split lip as the Novak kid looks at at him a little wearily. He wants to tell Cas that he didn’t steal, that he’s just good at pool. That he’s trying to get Sammy some new shoes, ones without holes and food on their plates and Baby more grain and gas for his kid brother’s stupid textbooks. But his lungs let out a rattle every time he breathes out so he just gives the other teenager a shifty smile. 

Castiel’s arm is looped around his back, taking most of his weight, and the knuckles that rest on his shoulder look bruised. Dean spares a glance around the entrance of the Roadhouse. Jo, Ellen and Ash stand outside, looking at four unconscious bodies littering the concrete. He gives them a shaky thumbs up from where he leans on Castiel’s side. Ellen hides her concern with an angry look (Dean really needs to start cleaning up his own messes). Jo looks like she’s considering strangling Gordon from where he groans softly on the floor, holding a jaw that hangs from a strange angle. Ash looks like he’s having a bad trip, eyes comically wide, starting openly at Castiel. 

Without turning around for an explanation Cas leads Dean to the old pickup. “I’ll return you. Again.” His voice still sounds like whiskey and Dean likes how he smells like horses and sea water and wind, so unsurprisingly, instead of thanking him, he tells Novak that he doesn’t need his help and he’ll get home on his own. The boy growls a little and shoves his hands through his hair in frustration, “Why are you so stubborn, Dean?” His eyes flash in the dim gleam of the moon then widen in panic. “Is this-is this a suicide attempt?” 

Dean wants to laugh, so he gives it a go. It’s still damp, but he continues, “No Jesus Christ no. Jus’ got caught up in something. Gordon isn’t a friendly guy. How’d you…?” He nods weakly in the direction of the bar. Castiel shrugs casually “I was just buying horse feed at the butchers,” but Dean catches the way the boy rubs his knuckles with slender, steady fingers. The blood crusted on their ridges wasn’t his. Dean was responsible for that. He felt a flush of shame at his ungrateful comments, but he’s still John Winchester’s kid so his pride is already trying to find ways to avoid making an apology. He looks up through his lashes instead, “Wanna help me into the truck?”


End file.
